


Kittens Ain't Shit and They Ain't Say Nothin'

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, could be but not really, idk there's everything man there's making out, is this a crackfic, just read it please, there's a little bit of angst so i'll put that, this is completely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis surprises Harry with a kitten one day. Harry is completely enamoured with her, and, well. Louis is more than a little jealous.</p><p>or, the kitten!fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kittens Ain't Shit and They Ain't Say Nothin'

**Author's Note:**

> this idea came to me and i had to write it. this is completely self-indulgent, slightly ridiculous, and completely untrue.
> 
> please leave me a comment, kudos, or follow/leave me a message on my tumblr: themignonettes

The door to the flat opens slowly, the lock coming undone with a soft click. Louis slips into the door, his hoodie zipped up to his neck, cradling his tummy. He shushes it as the door closes, and as soon as he makes a noise, the little claws tear up his shirt and a little white head pops out the top of his zip-up.

“Shh, Cueball,” he begs quietly, a hand holding up the palm-sized kitten underneath his hoodie, “Harry will wake up and you’ll ruin the surprise.” The kitten yawns in his face in response, opening its pink little mouth wide. As soon as Louis takes a step, the kitten starts slipping and it panics and digs its little pinprick-claws into Louis’ chest. It’s enough to make him consider pawning off the little fuzzball onto Liam to give Loki some cross-species company. He can’t, though, because Harry has been talking about getting a kitten since before they finished the last leg of their tour.

Louis has had this planned for months. He’s been keeping a constant watch on the pet adoption sites, even lurking about on the forums until he found a cat about to give birth just a few weeks before tour ended. He even gave them a few weeks to get readjusted at the flat so the kitten would be old enough -- Louis has been discreetly moving cleaning products and potentially-dangerous potted plants out of the reach, saying that it’s time for a bit of spring cleaning for them, a bit of reorganization for a fresh start. Which is bullshit, since he can’t be arsed to even pick up his dishes most days. Louis is pretty sure that he won’t be preparing for even his own child this well in the far future.

The kitten wriggles, breaking Louis out of his thoughts. He planned on when the kitten for months, but now that it’s here, he has no clue what to do with it. He hasn’t got a cat box or kitten food. Is the kitten even litter trained? Couldn’t be, it’s still practically fresh from it’s mum’s womb. (That train of thought stops right there. It’s something Louis wishes he hadn’t thought.) Come to think of it, he doesn’t even have any food and he didn’t even think of how he’d be surprising Harry with the kitten. He’ll just wing it. He wings everything. Seriously; Louis is really not sure how he’s gotten so far in life.

Louis creeps to their bedroom, letting the little white kitten nipping happily away at his pointer finger to keep it quiet. He opens the door as silently as he can, even though Harry is about as wake-able as a dead log. The kitten is distracted by the new possible heat source and struggles to get out of Louis’ grip. He gratefully complies and lets the kitten go near Harry’s mass of curls pressed into the pillow.

Cueball takes a moment to snuffle around the pillow before discovering the wonders of unruly, curly hair. Without a moment’s warning, it dives at the side of Harry’s head, colliding right with his cheek and miraculously startling him awake. He bolts upright, spluttering in an incredibly undignified manner that leaves Louis in stitches.

“Surprise! Say hello to Cueball, our newest flatmate,” Louis cheers, bouncing a little on his toes. He preens a little on the inside as he watches Harry’s expression morph from confused and sleepy to lit up from within, green eyes shining.

Patting the bed around him, Harry pulls apart the covers until he discovers the kitten burrowing underneath. He scoops up the kitten and cuddles it close to the birds below his collarbone, nuzzling the fluffy white fur. Louis’ heart feels like it’s going to burst out of his chest, so in love with Harry. It drops when Harry raises his head and narrows his eyes at him, looking uncannily like the cat snuggled up in his hands.

“You named our kitten Cueball,” Harry says flatly. For a moment Louis can only focus on the word “our”, but he snaps out of it and crosses his arms.

“I absolutely did.”

“I say you did not,” Harry responds immediately. He holds the kitten out like Simba to Louis’ face. The kitten blinks at him innocently; it looks like it’s about to start talking and beg to be put down by the Yeti holding him captive. “This face is too cute to be named _Cueball_ , Louis.”

Louis frowns. “I thought it was clever. She’s white and she’s just a round mass of fluff.”

“Then by that logic we could also call him Torn-Up Tampon,” Harry gripes, swinging his legs over the bed. (Louis takes offense to that statement. He could never call an animal Torn-Up Tampon. Except for a tarantula. He could definitely call a tarantula Torn-Up Tampon.) “He needs a cute name for a cute face.”

“She,” Louis corrects.

"Then she _definitely_ cannot be called Torn-Up Tampon!"

"I didn't call her Torn-Up Tampon, Harry!"

Harry is absolutely not listening. He ponders melodramatically; apparently he hasn't noticed that not-Torn-Up Tampon pulled a Houdini and disappeared from his hand, where it still rests on his chest.

"You're fondling your own chest. Is this a new habit?"

Harry looks at his hand curiously, like the kitten will pop back into existence. It pokes its head out from the pseudo-quiff he's had going on lately. "Puff," he decides out of the blue.

"That is a _tissue_. We've already gone over this; our kitten is not a hygiene product," Louis protests, plucking the kitten out of the jungle atop Harry's head. It grows very un-scarily and pounces back onto the bed, leaving behind a pouty Louis.

****

Harry frowns, crossing his arms. “We’ll call her Peep,” he says with an air of finality.

Louis throws his hands up in the air, frustrated. “That makes even less sense than Cueball!”

“Does not.”

“It bloody well does. The kitten isn’t a bird.”

“It does make sense,” Harry insists, absently playing with the kitten, who’s jumping away at his fingers. “She’s white and fluffy. Marshmallows are fluffy; ‘Marshmallow’ is too long, and Peeps are marshmallows. So she’s Peep. Like the marshmallow.”

Somewhere along the the line of the thought Louis stops listening and walks out of the room, leaving Harry to curl up with Peep.

****

\- - - - - - -

****

Later that day, Louis pops back into the flat after a radio interview. Well, he doesn’t really pop back in. He hauls himself in, panting, with the load of cat supplies in a pathetically squeaking children’s wagon. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t remember where he got the poor red wagon from, and he’s not sure if its owner will ever see it again.

“Harry,” Louis calls out, “did you know that a bag of cat litter can weigh up to twenty kilos?”

“Good thing you’ve got the biggest biceps in the band,” Harry replies from somewhere in the kitchen. He’s banging around; the smell of sauteed onions drifts out from the kitchen. It’s enough to prompt Louis to fix up the cat box as quickly as he can so that he can bug the resident chef. He struggles in vain to open the ridiculously-packaged litter and mentally curses his fixation with his own arms. Which isn’t without a foundation, at least.

Louis wanders into the kitchen, smelling faintly of odour-control Tesco cat litter. He plops himself onto a clear portion of the countertops next to the stove, watching Harry cook. With the cat. On his head.

“Hi, babes,” Harry says distractedly, slicing up mushrooms. “You smell nice.”

“That would be cat litter.”

“Oh, well.” He tosses the mushrooms into the pan. “Still smells nice.” Harry opens up the chicken broth and pours that into the sizzling pan too, but not without offering Peep a spoonful. The kitten shoves its nose into the spoon and emerges with whiskers dripping broth into Harry’s curls. Louis would be enamored (is, just won’t admit it) if he hadn’t just been told that he smells better than usual because he’s covered in cat litter.

As soon as Harry turns away from the stove, Louis tugs him over, reaching to pull Peep out of his hair so that Louis can run his fingers through the curls. As soon as he plucks the kitten off and leans in for a kiss, Puff starts whining in squeaky little mews, and instantly Harry has the kitten cradled against his chest, cooing to it, “It’s okay, I’ve got you. No more mean Louis stealing cuddles, no-siree.”

“ _Har-ry._ ”

“What?” Harry asks, eyes wide and curious.

“I’m your boyfriend,” Louis complains, “and I’ve just gotten you a kitten. Can’t I at least have a thank-you kiss?” He crosses his arms and pouts. “And you’ve started dinner with Peep. You never start dinner without me.” Suddenly it feels like the kitten’s little claws are skritching at his chest. Hurt blooms inside his chest, and then embarrassment immediately tackles that feeling to the ground. Louis is not jealous of a kitten. He is absolutely not.

Harry pecks Louis on the lips, a fairly unsatisfying kiss. “There. I’m sorry. At least you get me for the night, Lou,” he says cheekily.

Louis sighs and leans back against the cupboards. “That I do.”

****

\- - - - - - -

As it turns out, Louis does not get that night with Harry. Or the night after that. In fact, Louis does not get to fall asleep in bed with Harry for the first week that they have Peep, because the pair have movie nights. Yes, Harry and Peep have movie nights, and Louis is too much of a stubborn old mule to curl up next to Harry and deal with Peep jumping all over them.

Tonight’s pick is Titanic. Rationally, Louis knows that it is his moral and emotional obligation to watch it with Harry because, without fail, Harry always ends up a blubbering, teary mess when Jack sinks to the bottom of the ocean. But goddamn it, if Louis has gone this whole week resisting the lure of a cozy movie night with Harry almost a whole week in a row, he can certainly do it again tonight.

Except he doesn’t. Louis has his resolve, he _does_ , but when he’s finally curled up in bed, comfortable with his glasses and a book, he hears Harry talking to himself about Titanic, and he decides that maybe he can put his bruised pride aside for a night.

“It’s just so _sad_ ,” he hears Harry sniffle faintly as he tiptoes down the hallway, “because their love is just so more, like, passionate than anyone else has got it and it’s so short, you know, Peep? It’s rare and wow... They’re just so in love that it’s heartbreaking.”

Louis freezes. Is he joking? Is he actually joking? Harry is waxing poetic to a ten-week-old kitten about Titanic and better-to-have-loved-and-lost or something equally as soppy? He’s not sure whether to turn on his heel and plan a kitten intervention or to go join the pre-sobbing festivities.

For the second time in that night (second time ever, actually), he swallows his pride and steels himself for the mess on the couch he is about to encounter. Louis drags along with him his duvet into the living room and snuggles in next to Harry.

Peep looks like she’s mind-bendingly torn. On one hand, she is snuggled in the warm arms of Harry. On the other hand, she is almost literally soaked with Harry tears. Fortunately, he had the decency to wield a box a tissues for the snot, but a soaked cat is a soaked cat. They are not happy. They do not want to be touched.

So when Louis reaches for her, murmuring encouragingly, she yowls, sounding like a little piccolo plus a few packs of cigarettes, scrambling her way up the back of  the couch. After a few apprehensive moments, Peep decides that she is safe from the river of tears and curls up into a fist-sized ball, cleaning her teensy body.

Louis gives her his best “I’m watching you” look, complete with the two-fingered point, and turns back to Harry. “Why didn’t you get me if you were going to watch this, Harry?” he asks, brushing aside Harry’s damp fringe.

Harry hiccups, eyes fixed on the flashing screen. “You hate this movie,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to bother you and I knew Peep wouldn’t care, because she’s a kitten, so. I knew she would cuddle with me without complaint.”

Yep, something definitely crawled into Louis’ chest and started kicking his heart. He’s an arse. A complete arse. He sighs and pauses the movie, then reaches out to pull Harry close to his chest. For a moment, he just sits there with his face buried in Harry’s curls while his heart hammers away. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You know I’m never bothered by you, right?”

Harry nods, pressing himself back into Louis. “I... guess, yeah. I’m sorry too for thinking that of you.”

“Don’t apologize. This one is all on me. Now let’s finish this up.”

“Or the whole thing?” Harry says hopefully, twisting around in Louis’ grip, eyes big and lips pouting in the exact way that he’s a goner for.

“Or the whole thing,” Louis allows, because he _is_ completely gone for Harry in the worst way.

The blinding grin from Harry practically knocks Louis backward. Maybe Louis should swallow his pride more often.

 

 

\- - - - - - -

 

The last four pictures on Harry's Instagram are selfies of him with Peep. This is getting ridiculous.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

It’s a Friday afternoon when Louis decides again that tattoos are too addicting to resist; he comes back that evening with a chest piece spanning the space just below his collarbone, curling script that contrasts beautifully with his sharp features. He’s pretty pleased of the turnout on his last-minute decision, if he does say so himself.

And so is Harry, if the intense stares are anything to go by. Louis “accidentally” forgets about all of the button-up shirts he owns in favor of the scoop-neck tee-shirts (or no shirt at all). Whenever he passes by Harry, he tries to hide his smirk, because he knows he has a vice-grip on his attention now, no matter how much he pretends to be interested in Peep instead. It’s driving Harry crazy knowing that he can’t touch the tattoo for a couple of weeks, and so he distracts himself by ignoring Louis’ come-ons and trying to teach Peep tricks.

Harry is mad trying to teach Peep anything at her age, but apparently she’s smarter than she looks. He first tries to teach her how to play fetch; she catches on pretty quickly, much to his disappointment. He rather enjoyed how she scrambled up his side to claim the catnip-filled mouse from his grip, because she would curl up on his leg while she busied herself trying to tear the mouse apart.

He finally gives up trying to teach her how to roll over one night and tucks her toys away before trudging off to bed. Resisting Louis is exhausting work, and he doesn’t like to do it, but if it’s for the sake of that tattoo, then, well. He’ll do anything to preserve that on him forever.

As soon as he makes it into their bedroom, Louis is up in his space, grabbing fistfuls of Harry’s shirt and slamming him into the wall.

“You’re a fucking arse, you know that,” Louis hisses at Harry, pushing him into the wall once again before crashing his mouth onto Harry’s. It’s sloppy and angry, just as angry as Louis is; it’s also unbelievably hot. Louis may be scary when he’s angry, but he’s undeniably so much hotter when his dominating presence is magnified in it.

Slipping his hands around Louis’ small body, Harry pulls him closer and runs his tongue across Louis’ lips. His mouth parts and their tongues meet messily, slick and warm. Harry pushes forward at Louis gently and starts to walk them to the bed, keeping his hands firm on the smaller man’s back. The backs of Louis’ knees hit the bed and he pulls Harry down with him. They don’t stay like that for long; Louis grabs the reins and flips them over, crowding Harry’s space as much as he can.

“Ignoring me for two weeks, you absolute twat,” Louis mumbles, shucking his shirt and slipping his hands underneath Harry’s, “can’t believe you thought you were going to do that and get off easy.”

All Harry can do is gape, eyes fixed on how the script shifts as Louis breathes, letting Louis control him. Louis grabs Harry’s wrists roughly, going to pin them against the bed.

A pained screech sounds as soon as his wrists hit the pillow; it turns out that the pillow wasn’t completely a pillow after all. Peep squeaks in distress as she wriggles her way out from underneath Harry’s wrists and streaks out of the room.

In a flash Louis is pushed off of Harry. “Now look at what you’ve done!” Harry scolds Louis, moving to get off the bed. “I can’t believe you could be so rude. You’ve been so terrible lately.”

And God, Louis is pissed. He is so fucking angry that he’s shaking within seconds, fingernails biting white half-moons into his palms. “ _No_ , Harry, this is not my fault.”

“You just hurt Peep!”

“I’m not talking about the goddamn kitten! I’m talking about this,” he gestures between the two of them. Confusion sets into Harry’s face.

“You really _are_ a fucking arse,” Louis says disbelievingly. “I cannot believe you. You have been ignoring me since we got that kitten. You don’t give me the time of day; Harry, you do things with Peep that we used to do together. And if you’re this bloody _dense_ that you don’t get it at this point, then I don’t know if I want to keep doing this. I don’t know if I want to be with someone who takes weeks to realize that they’re hurting someone.”

The words flip a switch in Harry’s brain; all of a sudden something is sinking deep in his stomach; he curls in on himself and wraps his arms around his stomach like it’ll squeeze the hurt away. He blinks away tears that prick behind his eyes. “I didn’t realise,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t - I couldn’t replace you.”

Louis deflates and tucks his knees up under his chin. “You have though,” he replies tersely, putting what feels like the entire world in between them with just three words.

“I did,” Harry acknowledges. Which hurts. It hurts to realise that maybe he is as dense as Louis said, but he’s going to change it. “But I won’t anymore. I promise that I’ll fix it.” He reaches out to brush Louis fringe out of damp eyes, hoping that he won’t pull away.

He doesn’t. Louis sits there, burning a hole through Harry with his blue-eyed gaze. “And how?”

Harry offers a weak smile. “You’ll see.”

 

 

\- - - - - - -

The solution is (what else) another kitten: a tan little ball of fluff with a splotch of black on his head.

He’s named Quiff after Zayn’s hair, and he takes to Peep rather well. So well, in fact, that after a few months and a patched-up relationship, the flat is not only home to Harry and Louis plus the two cats, it is also the future home of a full litter of kittens.

They break the news a little too dramatically to the rest of the boys, complete with a cake topped with two cat figurines and frosted with _Please Adopt The Baby Kittens._ Suffice to say, none of them were too amused with the kitten shower, but they were charmed enough to each agree to take on a kitten.

“But only if we figure out that Loki won’t eat the kitten,” Liam clarifies.

“Figure out?” Harry asks, horrified, snatching the cake from Liam. “No cake for as long as our poor kittens are some kind of - of sick _science experiment_ for you!”

Liam only shrugs.

A month later their flat is messily blessed with five little kittens, all tiny and lovely and healthy.

Louis is back at square one this time, but with Harry: deprived of kitten attention and green with envy.


End file.
